Home

Joan Didion wrote something once that hit home with me (and I use that cliche on purpose).

A place belongs forever
to whoever claims it hardest, remembers
it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, 
shapes it, renders it,
loves it so radically that he 
remakes it in his own image. 

People ask me from time to time why I've stayed with the newspaper, why I still live in the community in which I was born -- in essence, why I've stayed here in Halls.

Fair enough question.

Part of the answer is that, by and large, I'm happy here. Halls Crossroads, TN (unincorporated) is my home. People here have been good to me. They've put up with my rants. They've helped me grow. They've taught me valuable lessons, either about what to do or what not to do. They've come to hear me sing, been kind enough to laugh at my jokes. Some of them have even commissioned me to write the community's history, which will be completed later this year.

I always wanted to write and found out a way to get paid doing it in my own backyard. Not bad, huh?

Don't get me wrong. I get the itch now and again.

I've told you before about that Garrison Keillor novel "Love Me." The main character hits the big time with a best-seller, goes to New York, works for Mr. Shawn at The New Yorker. That's my dream!

Just the other day, I was feeling stifled, sick, tired, beautifully, simply longing to move to Bay St. Louis,  wondering if it was worth killing all these trees and working all these hours, all this stress, all this newsprint. And then I read this article by Keillor in National Geographic. Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.

Great, huh?

What I finally discovered is you don't have to go away somewhere to be successful. Success is subjective.

Sure, I get tired of the rednecks, a term I use carefully, in its most blunt, direct, definition. But that's everywhere. There's a difference, a big one, between being Southern, certainly being country, and being a redneck. Rednecks live in all 50 states, can be found in any economic bracket, any country in the world, and are among the most disgusting vermin to ever go slouching across the soil.

I'm happy here. I'm happy at the paper. Some days I miss my old Charles Kuralt-esque beat, but it's cool.

Plus, as you can imagine, covering county government is the best job in town. Who needs so-called "reality TV" when you have that kind of entertainment?

I could make more money elsewhere, but, as I said, I'm happy. Don't guess I'll leave unless the Detroit Tigers or The New Yorker calls.

And, at the end of the day, I love this area, not only Halls, but Knox County, its people, its beauty. It's just big enough to have access to parks and cinema and hyperlocal radio and the fine arts and still be small enough to feel familiar.

Plus, I figure why not subvert from within? My politics are more moderate, a little to the left, a little to the right. People will put up with you, and sometimes listen, if you're purposeful and pleasant. I try to be both. I often fail, but I try.

There's an old, old saying in this business of herding words:

"Write what you know."

Most importantly of all, my loved ones are here.

Compelling reasons to stay, eh?

Does anybody know someone named "Kristi Isbel"?

OK, I'm finally going public with this because I'm getting tired of it:

Starting a few years ago, I've been getting emails addressed to a "Kristi Isbel." It went so far as to also list in some of them what turned out to be a bogus snail mail address on Beeler Road in North Knox County.

Does anybody know whether there is a real Kristi Isbel? If so, she and I might be victims of identity theft.

Please know that I am doing whatever I can to determine who has done this and will fund an identity theft investigation if necessary.

No place like home

Pulled out of the driveway in a bad mood.

It was 9,000 degrees outside, my stomach hurt, and if I had my way I'd probably have curled up on the couch with the mystery I'd checked out of the Halls Branch Library earlier today.

But, I had work to do. National Night Out at Stewart Ridge subdivision. It's a livin'.

I was still grumbling, mostly wishing I was sitting in the sand somewhere on Maui, when I got out of the car and broke out into a big grin. There sat Faye Heydasch, one of my second grade teachers.

Here came Maggie Meyers, who went to school with me, her young son in tow. I smiled and marveled for the millionth time that my contemporaries are old enough to have kids.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Jim McManus sitting in the shade, making a Popsicle disappear.

"You're getting married?" he exclaimed. "Congratulations! It will make a better man out of ya."

Jim said he really appreciated the fact that the Shopper came out to Stewart Ridge to cover the event.

"This is what I like reading about," he said. "My friends and neighbors and what's going on in the community."

We talked awhile, about the lack of mass transit in the county, about the fact that his grandfather worked on the so-called Dummy Line, the electric trolley that used to ferry folks from Fountain City to downtown. We talked about the weather and the World's Fair and the way the stores have left the 'burbs.

"But regardless of everything, this is still the best place in the county to live and raise a family," Jim said.

I blabbed for a few more minutes and finally made my way to dinner. Coming back up Cunningham Road, seeing the sun slip toward its slumber, I realized Jim was right. I guess the famous line from that corny film is true after all.

Wherever ye may roam, there's no place like home.